“In your own specialties of neurology and trauma, we have all of the diagnostic tools one could wish,” said his guide, jabbing a menu at the lower left of the large screen. The screen filled with icons indicating a number of programs. Ramil stared at them as if he were seeing them for the first time.
“You’re frowning,” said Dr. Ozdilick.
“Oh, just trying to decipher these.” Ramil feigned a smile. Instead of practicing the procedure umpteen times with the Desk Three people, he should have taken an acting course. That was the tough part of this, wasn’t it? Pretending to be someone else. The medical procedure he could do cold.
Any second, Red Lion would be wheeled through the doors downstairs and they could get to work. Then he’d relax. It would be like the old days, the
“Doctor?”
Ramil looked at his guide. “Might I have some water? I feel thirsty.”
Dr. Ozdilick led him a few yards down the hall to a large water cooler. Air bubbled up from the jug with a loud
“There you are,” said a quiet voice behind them.
Ramil turned and saw that Charlie Dean had finally arrived. Rather than reassuring him, it caused his stomach to turn — the operation was ready to begin.
“My colleague, Dr. Gomez from Madrid,” Ramil told Dr. Ozdilick.
“Yes, you introduced us yesterday. How was the session?”
“A little bit, eh, not interesting,” said Dean. He spoke English with a Spanish accent that was more Mexico than Madrid, but few people in Turkey would know the difference.
Dr. Ozdilick’s pager gave a short beep.
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, retreating a few steps down the hall to the open window of a nurse’s station.
Lia adjusted her headpiece as the ambulance backed in toward the emergency room entrance of the Istanbul Medical University Center. The bodyguard who had shot the Turkish man was crouched near the door, watching the attendant who’d slapped an oxygen mask on Asad.
Even with the pure oxygen, the al-Qaeda operative seemed to be having trouble breathing. If Asad died, the whole operation would be a waste.
Even so, Lia would have relished seeing Asad choke to death. In his mid-thirties, with the air of a humble and soft-spoken college professor, he’d been responsible for hundreds of deaths, and was in Istanbul to plan thousands more.
The ambulance doors opened and the bodyguard jumped out, surveying the area before letting the attendants take the stretcher out. Lia put her fingers on Asad’s throat as if she were taking his pulse. She trotted alongside as the attendants pushed him inside, people backing out of the way to allow them to pass. She had a brief speech outlining his symptoms ready, but a nurse began immediately examining the patient as he was wheeled in, and before Lia could say anything, the woman had barked instructions for the hospital’s neurologist to be called.
The attendants pushed the rolling stretcher toward a set of white curtains at the far end of the room. A nurse appeared and told Lia in Turkish that she was not permitted beyond the common area.
“I’m a nurse,” Lia said, also using Turkish.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, she comes,” insisted the bodyguard in English. Though his pistol was in his holster and out of sight, his voice was sharp enough that the nurse backed off and let Lia join them.
“They’re just finding out that Dr. Kildare won’t be joining the party,” said Rockman over the Deep Black communications system. “They’ll be calling our guy down any second.”
“His pupils aren’t responsive,” Lia told the doctor who met them. The drug-induced symptom had an immediate effect: the doctor concluded that the patient probably had a concussion or an even more serious head injury.
“Explain that you are not Turkish and that’s why you’re using English,” said Rockman, sounding like a play prompter when an actor went off script during rehearsal.
Lia, knowing it was unnecessary, ignored the voice in her head. She helped one of the nurses set up a blood pressure cuff. Asad’s blood pressure had been low in the ambulance and was even lower now — a deviation from the script considerably more severe than Lia’s dropped line.
“We need the neurologist very quickly,” the young doctor told one of the nurses. “And get Dr. Kayseri, the trauma expert.”
Dean watched Ramil stare up at the ceiling as Dr. Ozdilick explained the situation. A prominent visitor, a businessman from Syria, had been involved in a car accident and had an unknown head injury. The hospital’s chief trauma expert had not answered his home phone, and their neurologist was on his break at a local Turkish bath; it might be a half hour or more before either arrived.
“Of course we must help,” said Ramil, glancing at Dean. “Where is the emergency room?”
“This way,” said Dr. Ozdilick, nodding gratefully. He started toward the elevator.
“Lia’s downstairs in the emergency room,” said Rockman from the Art Room as Dean got into the elevator. “Everything’s going great.”
The elevator stopped but the door didn’t open right away. Ramil’s stomach lurched. For a half second he was sure the elevator had malfunctioned and they were trapped here.
To be tripped up by a ridiculous mechanical failure…
The door sprung open. People rushed at them. Ramil followed Dr. Ozdilick down the hall. It was all very familiar — they’d constructed a set just like this in an abandoned warehouse near Baltimore.
“We can wash up here,” said Dr. Ozdilick, gesturing to the left. “I’ll find you a coat.”
During the rehearsals, Ramil had bantered with the actor playing Ozdilick, saying things like, “Do you arrange these emergencies for all your guests?” or, “Cutting down on staff costs by using visitors?” But he couldn’t find the words now. His stomach roiling, he wanted to fast forward everything, just get the knife into his hand, relax, focus on what he was doing.
Ramil glanced back at Dean. The Deep Black op wore the expression he always wore: stoic watchfulness. For some men, such an expression masked deep fear, but in Dean’s case it was an expression of who he was. From what Ramil knew of him, Dean never felt fear, or even butterflies in his stomach.
Ramil scrubbed his hands at the sink so thoroughly even the old doctor who had supervised his first residency would have been pleased. Dr. Ozdilick had found white physician’s coats for him and Dean; Dean’s looked a size too small, but Ramil’s was a perfect fit.
“This way, doctors,” said Dr. Ozdilick.
A door swung open at the end of the corridor and Ramil caught a glimpse of daylight from the windows in the clinic beyond. His colon twisted ever tighter as he followed Dr. Ozdilick down a corridor of examining spaces formed by curtains suspended from the ceiling. One flew open abruptly; Ramil jumped back as a man with a stubble beard and an ill-fitting suit loomed in the middle of the passage. He had a gun in his hand, and he pointed it at Dr. Ozdilick.
“Help him,” demanded the man. “In the name of God, help him. He is dying.”
CHAPTER 7
William Rubens looked up at the large screen at the front of the Art Room, watching the feed from one of the security cameras in the Istanbul hospital. If there was a commercial computer system in the world that Rubens’ team of computer specialists couldn’t break into, they hadn’t found it yet. Conveniently for Desk Three, the
